


tell me, would we?

by Muir_Wolf



Category: Late Night Host RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Crack Pairing, Crossover, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-20
Updated: 2011-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-24 19:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in December of ‘01, with Elijah’s interview on LNw/COB.  Prompt was Barbra Streisand's "The Way We Were"</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me, would we?

Viggo has a stillness about him; it settles deep in Conan’s chest, a pressure he can’t escape. Viggo smiles easily, but sometimes there’s a reserved look in his eyes, a secret to the curve of his lips; it’s distracting and it’s unfair and Conan remembers, uneasily, how little Viggo ever played by the rules. It’s been years since they’ve seen each other, and he didn’t expect to see him tonight—this is Elijah’s interview, after all—but there he is, leaning against the wall of the trailer while Billy and Dominic cackle over in the corner and Elijah struggles with his tie. It should be endearing how they’re still traveling in packs, how they can’t let each other go, but Conan’s too struck by Viggo’s eyes meeting his. Conan flushes, stumbling over his words as he forces out a greeting; he’s always been so erratic and uncertain in the face of Viggo’s peace.

(And he can remember Viggo laughing, chasing him as Conan ran like a newborn foal, that one summer and the first weeks of autumn, before the trees had quite changed, before Conan left for New York and Viggo for Thailand and a quest for understanding Conan had never quite understood. But then, Conan has always felt a step or two behind Viggo. He thinks, maybe, most people do.)

Viggo smiles when he sees him, slow and smooth and familiar, and it hurts a little with its affection. “Conan,” he says, stepping closer, enfolding him in a hug before Conan can quite steady himself. Viggo smells of pine, somehow, and open sky, and it twists in Conan’s gut. His arms tighten around Viggo for a beat, and then he lets him go. (And he has spent a lifetime letting him go, he has spent years giving him up.)

“Viggo,” Conan says, and his voice is steady, he thinks, steady enough, and then Viggo cups his cheek and presses his forehead against his and says “I missed you.” And Viggo has never played by the rules, has lived outside those rules, has walked down paths and stared through windows from the outside, searching for some hidden clue, some unseen path, and Conan has never been able to fault him that, never been able to keep him from something more.

He can hear the sounds of Elijah and Billy and Dominic’s quiet talk, and he knows it’s about them, but Viggo tugs Conan’s shirt and smiles that lopsided smile, and Conan lets go, gives in, gives up; Viggo’s smile is too wide and his eyes too dear and hearts, after all, must be made to be broken, or they wouldn’t break so well.


End file.
